


Always A Price

by Iridogorgia



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jim is a shitty magician, Molly Hooper/The Gentleman but very one-sided, Not A Happy Ending, Spells & Enchantments, The Gentleman is a creep, molliarty - Freeform, this doesn’t end well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: Be wary of dealing with fae folk, their bargains are rarely as good as they make them sound.OrJim accidentally summons an ancient entity and throws everything to hell.Molly/Jim  Background canon divergence through Season 2 of Sherlock.





	1. Say Your Right Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookishTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookishTea/gifts).



> For those of you who have not seen JS&MN, go grab the book and watch the series on Netflix RIGHT NOW. The Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair can be read kind of as a typical fae, I line him with with Jareth the Goblin King from Labyrinth. I saw a lot of parallels between him and Jim Moriarty, so I thought I would explore this little idea. It’s a gift for BookishTea, who got me hooked on JS&MN, and in a true tribute to her this turned from a goal of 1,500 words to over 10,000. I hope you enjoy.

Jim Moriarty was pacing back and forth before the large swinging doors that lead to the pool, the unfinished cement of the service corridor gleaming damply under the ugly lighting.  He was muttering under his breath, rehearsing how he _knew_ the conversation with Sherlock would go.

 _Sherlock_.

Oh, he could hardly _wait_.

“Should I open with ‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’ or,” he whispered to himself breathlessly, voice going higher with anticipation, “‘Gave you my number, thought you might call?’  Oh, yes, that one, absolutely that one.”

He turned one more time and looked greedily at the door to the pool, and stopped short.

There, blocking the entryway, was the strangest looking man he’d ever seen.

Sweeping dark brows settled on a corpse-pale face, unnaturally pale eyes trained on him like a predator.  His hair was odd, bushy, tall and white, almost like the top to a thistle. He wore a very fine suit and jacket, deep green with leaves embroidered in sparkling thread. His waistcoat was a little old fashioned, but still quite smart.  Jim found himself almost… envious. The man was very, very handsome.

But how had he gotten here?  Jim turned in a slow circle, hands in his pockets, before resting his eyes on the man’s face.  The strange gentleman had tilted his own head to an almost impossible angle, corners of his mouth quirked up in something that wasn’t quite amused.

“How did you get in here?”  Jim stood straight, feet apart, but brows drawn in confusion and no small amount of annoyance.

“That is not the right question,” the gentleman smiled, and Jim found his ears struggling to hold the man’s voice.  It was like silk or warm water, flowing over him in a manner that felt quite lovely but was terrible to try and hold.  “The question is,” the man murmured softly, “why did you summon me here?” He stepped closer. “Do you wish to make a bargain?”

Jim stepped back on instinct and was instantly annoyed with himself.  He didn’t back down, not ever. He covered his slip by adjusting his stance and pulled his hands out of his pocket to cross them in front of his chest.  “Usually, I’d be very interested in making bargains with strange men in back alleys, but I’m a little occupied at the ‘mo.” He made a gesture, “If you wouldn’t mind, I have business to attend to.”

The man took another step closer.  “What business? My kind has a tendency to offer help with… certain situations.”  This time his voice was like a summer breeze, all warmth and the smell of seaside.  Jim found his eyelashes fluttering.

“I… I can handle this situation on my own, but I thank you for the thought.”  Why was it so hard to concentrate? He shook off the feeling of hot sun on his face and sand between his toes.

“Mm.  No. You cannot.”  The man started to circle him, his fine leather shoes hardly whispering against the cement.  “I have seen your future, James Moriarty, and this doesn’t end well for you at all.” He was almost behind Jim now, and the man loomed over him.  “I ask for a small price, really. Something you’d never even miss.” He moved around and gave Jim what he supposed was to be a generous looking smile, but it made his lizard-brain stop and shrink.   _Danger._

Was this how some clients felt when he pulled a very similar move?   _Fascinating._  He’d have to do it more often.

Jim giggled, “Oh, it’s not _supposed_ to end well for me, or for him.  But I’ll entertain your notion. I’m a curious man, after all.  So changeable, you never know what I’m going to do next.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at the man, “What is your price?”

The man gave him a mix between a smile and a snarl.  “Half the life of the woman in your heart.”

Jim froze.  He tilted his head.  He blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry?”

“There’s someone in your heart, someone with her white, white hands constantly red, someone with a long, lovely neck and delicate feet.”  The man smiled dreamily, his voice slipping into the dulcet tones of spring, all soft flowers and the first peek of sunshine. He whispered, “So perfect for dancing.” Jim smelled almond blossoms and grass after the rain.

He sounded dubious, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The gentleman’s pale eyes snapped to his face, looking him up and down, before he clicked his teeth.  It sounded like iron against crystal. “Ah, yes, I do see now.” He stepped within a handspan of Jim, murmuring almost too quietly for him to hear, “She only held your heart in her hands _after_ the fall, I do so see.  And literally, no doubt.”  The man’s too long fingers with their sharp, curving nails reached out, gently touching the center of his chest.  “She took it from right _there_ , clever thing.”

The gentleman stepped back, tilting his head again to study Jim.

Somehow, he felt lacking.

He cleared his throat, stuffing his hands back in his pockets.  “I’m not sure who you’re talking about, but sure. Half this mystery woman’s life.  What’s in it for me?”

The man… thing smiled widely, “What would you like?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably update this daily until it's done! Let me know what you think.


	2. What's Said is Said

Molly had been having strange dreams lately.

She was dancing in an old fashioned dress, straight out of Pride and Prejudice, with satin slippers on her feet and curls in her hair.  She danced with a man who looked like he was made of ice and magic, with soft, fluffy hair like fairy floss.

The dreams agitated her, and she woke up with sore toes and deep bags under her eyes.

Also, some weeks ago, after Jim from IT had disappeared, she’d woken up with a hank of her hair missing.  Just a big patch, shorn down almost to the scalp. She’d been able to disguise it with side ponytails for now, but it was very alarming.  Almost like magic. It wasn’t growing back.

And now, at the lab, she was staring artlessly into Mr. Bitterbite’s chest cavity.  She wondered if he had any bloodborne diseases, should she fall asleep in the middle of it.  Blinking slowly, she hefted out a portion of his large intestine and dumped it on a scale.

She had to try twice to press the recorder button, “5 pounds of large intestine, oh you chubby boy you,” here she gave a wide yawn, “Scratch that last part.”  She flicked off the recorder and set it down, absently dumping the intestine back in his body.

“What is wrong with me?” she murmured.

She didn’t see the cold smile of the fairy floss haired man in the corner of the room.

He did so love to watch her when her hands were covered in rubies.

 

* * *

 

At half past midnight on a Tuesday, Molly knocked on the door of 221B Baker St.  John, his hair mussed and eyes sleep-hazed, opened the door with his pistol at his side.  His eyes widened when he saw her, and he silently stepped back to let her into the stairwell.  He gave a cursory glance outside before shutting the door firmly behind them.

John put his hand on her elbow as she stood on the second step, and she turned wearily to look at him.

She looked terrible.  The purple smudges beneath her bloodshot eyes, hair unbrushed, skin tight across her thin face, she looked… hunted.

John whispered, “Molly, are you… what’s going on?”

She gave him a watery smile, “I… I…”  Her face started to crumble, “Can I sleep here tonight?”  Her already tired eyes filled with tears and she gasped, “Something is _wrong_ , John, when I sleep I don't get any rest.  I hear a sound like _bells_ , and I have to go _dance,”_ at his pitying look, she snarled fiercely, “No, don’t do that, don’t make that face, I set up a camera.   _I caught myself doing it_.”  She ran a hand over her face, her heart fluttering madly in her chest.  “I get up from my bed and walk through the bedroom door, every night. I haven’t set up cameras in the rest of the apartment, but there’s such a strange _sound_  and then I don’t come back until _dawn_.”

She started to breathe too heavily, hands over her eyes, and Jim reached up hesitantly to pat her on the shoulder.

“You can sleep here, Molly,” he said softly, “Sherlock and I will watch out for you.”

Shuffling her upstairs, he settled her on the couch before pulling a puzzled Sherlock into the kitchen.  She heard the low murmur of their voices and a sound that was absolutely Sherlock scoffing, and she felt almost ashamed enough to leave.  The fear overwhelmed everything else, so she stayed. She was so tired. So terribly, terribly tired.

She was asleep before they came back into the room, curled up in a small ball on the old, uncomfortable couch.  John quietly spread a blanket over her and went back up to bed, Sherlock sourly agreeing to take first watch.

In the end, it didn’t matter much.

The Gentleman with the thistledown hair could make anyone fall asleep if he wanted them to.  He did spend a minute or two longer staring at Sherlock than he normally would, but who could really blame him for admiring such an exquisite specimen?  Another time, though, he had an appointment to keep with his lady.

Molly sobbed in his arms as they whirled to strange, beautiful music that didn’t resonate quite well in her skull.

 

* * *

 

The Gentleman leaned against the wall as Jim finished recording another segment of his strange storytelling sessions.

As the consulting criminal hopped off the stool and stode away from the green screen, absently pulling his grey shirt over his head, the Gentleman spoke flatly, “We struck a bargain, but you have not told me your end.  I must have it.” His eyes were cold, his voice sounding like ice cracking deep below the Arctic sea. Jim shivered, delighted by the feeling.

“Not nooow~,” he sang in falsetto, pulling on a white button down, “I’m saving it for a special occasion.  How is the mystery woman, by the way? Is her half life coming up soon?”

“Ah, yes.  I have been stealing her nights.  She’s gone to a man with eyes the color of the sea in sunlight to keep her safe,” the corners of his mouth turned up as he gazed softly in the distance, “but he isn’t able to do such a fine job.”

Jim froze.  He finished buttoning his shirt, slowly, then turned around.  He steepled his fingers under his chin, then squinted his eyes at the Gentleman.  “The woman. What is her name again?” He snapped his fingers, absently, “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“I have heard it in passing, not that it matters so much.  Molly Hooper.” His voice melted a little, like the first snowdrop of the season bursting through snow.  “Her cries add such a pleasantness to the music. She dances just so beautifully.”

Jim’s smile turned a little feral.  “You don’t say.” He straightened his shirtsleeves.  “I want to rescind my half of the bargain.” He clasped his hands in front of him as the Gentleman raised one perfect eyebrow.  “I haven’t used it, so you can have it back. There you go, off you pop.”

The Gentleman strode closer, his fine fawn colored shoes silent on the carpet.  His suit was a bright emerald this time, with acorns at the hem of his jacket. His smile was sharp and terrible.  “The deal has been struck. You cannot return it.” Voice like the winter wind, full of icy knives.

“I don’t want my wishes, _genie_ ,” Jim said stiffly, uncomfortably, leaning back as the Gentleman leaned in.  “I don’t want it, take it back and release her.”

The Gentleman leaned in, showing his white, white teeth, “ _No.”_

He disappeared and Jim was alone.  He cursed and kicked over a decorative table, shattering the lamp that was set upon it.  

Damn him, _DAMN him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the book and show, The Gentleman steals people away to his kingdom to dance all night. It eventually drives them mad, because they are never really allowed to rest. I don't think he usually physically takes them, but I bent the rules for the purposes of this fiction.
> 
> I'll update again tomorrow!


	3. Fear Me

The Gentleman spent part of his time haunting Molly, smirking up into the cameras he knew Moriarty had hid in her apartment, haunting her by pushing objects around every so slightly, or pressing the edge of one nail to the back of her neck, but never revealing himself.  Keeping her on edge and frightened. Just a blur at the corner of her eye. He was silent, still and patient.

What is time to an immortal being?

He was there when she begged to keep sleep at bay, leaning down to kiss the tears from her cheeks.  He loved the shade of purple below her eyes, the same as a delicate violet in weak winter sunshine. He could make flowers grow out of her eye sockets, in time.

He could make briars grow out of Jim’s chest cavity if the annoying little man didn’t tell him his end of the bargain.  He kept Molly on edge, unstable, to make Jim on edge, unstable. He needed the tiny mortal man to slip up. He needed him to trip and fall, so his mortal companion could hold his heart in her small red hands once she’d cracked open his sternum and pulled the purple, slippery thing out of his chest.

The Gentleman wanted to lick the blood from each digit and fashion her a crown of Jim’s rib bones.  Set her, weeping, upon a throne made of hawthorne and have her reign in despair for all time. Her tears added something a little extra to his magic, another layer to his voice, a dimension that reflected light like cut glass and felt like porcelain dust on his tongue.   _Addictive_.

He divided the rest of his time between Jim, who apparently didn’t know he had a hint of magic to him, just enough to raise the interest of the fae, and Sherlock, who was as beautiful as he was terrible.

Jim’s silver tongue, the key to so many locked rooms, wasn’t entirely a gift of his intellect but of his forefathers.  Somewhere in his line had been a magician, and Jim Moriarty invoked the smallest bit of coercion magic every time he plied someone with his words.  Not a lot, it took twenty years for the Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair to notice him, but now he could not escape that notice.

In this modern age, true magicians were so rare, so hard to come by, the Gentleman wanted to steal as many companions as he could while he was welcome on this plane.  Just enough to tide him over to the next time a magician accidentally called upon him.

Speaking of companions, he longed to cut himself on Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones.  The man with his strange features, almost as fae as his own, stirred a deep longing in his bones.  He wanted to toss the long, lean figure to his dancers and have them pass him around like a plaything.  He hadn’t seen the mortal man display much by way of human emotion, other than a deep obsession with Moriarty’s puzzles, but he _desperately_ wanted to see the man’s tears.  The Gentleman wanted to make Sherlock _weep_.

So, he observed.  He sat, invisible, on the corner of the drab little couch, and watched.

Many mortals came to the dowdy little flat, with their dowdy little problems, and Sherlock sifted through the flotsam to find the gems, the interesting puzzles, mixed in to the bunch.  He extracted them professionally and hustled the clients out of his apartment, payment in his fine-fingered hand, and promised a text message when he had solved the case.

The other mortal, the dull little one who’s dull little name started with a human letter, he was sure of it, was easily brushed aside and ignored by the Gentleman.

The Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair decided that the obvious way to get close to Sherlock was to become a client.

So he ascended the stairs like a mortal, dressed like a mortal in his fine suit and soft leather shoes, but didn’t do a thing to disguise the rest of him.  He started at Sherlock, hunger in his gaze, from the door.

“Come in,” said the human stepping-stone, dressed in beige and gray like a rock, and the Gentleman neatly side stepped him and sat primly in the chair in the middle of the room.  His eyes never left Sherlock’s. After a length of time, the human said, “...right. Tea, anyone, or shall we just get on with it?”

“John,” and ah yes, that was the mortal’s name, the Gentleman filed it away and forgot it immediately, “step outside.  I need… a minute.” Oh, the Gentleman fluttered his eyelashes, Sherlock’s voice was so deep and rich, it sounded like a handful of red ochre and tasted like the water from the deepest river on earth, cold and sweet and so, so clean.  He felt himself starting to smile in a decidedly unfriendly way.

“...right.”  The ordinary little man stepped outside, both of the men in the room listening as his steps faded down the staircase.

Sherlock was silent for a time, but that was fine.  His smile curled up the edges of his lips, the Gentleman was a very patient man.  He had all the time in the world.

Eventually, Sherlock, who hadn’t moved, whispered, “What _are_ you?”

He fluttered his pale eyelashes, “We have a mutual acquaintance,” he watched Sherlock’s face as he tried to comprehend his voice. There was the slightest widening of the eyes, the slightest lift of the brow, and he continued, “and I just had to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”  He held the vowels in his mouth like the sweetest flesh of a summertime peach, all juicy and _sinful_.  Quietly, like a curse or a prayer, “ _Sherlock._ ”

They stared each other down, the Gentleman so confident and Sherlock, for the first time, afraid to move. “Moriarty,” he hissed.

“Moriarty,” the Gentleman confirmed, letting the name slide out of his mouth like a snake, all shining scales and fangs full of venom.

Sherlock shivered, and the Gentleman longed to run his hands up and down his arms to feel the goose-pimpled flesh.  All those little hairs standing on end, electric.

“He struck a bargain with me,” the Gentleman murmured, and Sherlock smelled chlorine, “and gave me something… precious.”  He fluttered his hands like moths in starlight and smiled, “But I always want more.” He made a show of looking Sherlock up and down, eyes lingering in places that made Sherlock want to hide.  “Do you want to go to a ball, Sherlock?” he asked suddenly, and Sherlock heard violins. His own eyes glanced to his instrument, and the Gentleman’s eyes followed. His smile surrounded Sherlock like a nest of brambles, “Ah!  A musician, I love those. Play me something.” It wasn’t a request.

“You…” Sherlock visibly steeled himself, “You’re a client.  Clients come with cases. What is your case? If…” he faltered, for only a second, “If you have no case, you must leave.”

The Gentleman leaned back in the chair, letting the afternoon light catch the silver thread shooting through his blue suit.  “My case,” he mused, quietly, “My case is of utmost importance,” he kept Sherlock’s eye contact, “and it involves a musician such as yourself, good ser.”  He saw the instant the magic took hold, the familiar rush of the game, and he smiled darkly. _Addict._  He added another little nudge, an awakening of an old itch, and he smiled when Sherlock’s fingers curled.

“A musician, you say?”  His voice had gone deeper and slightly slower.  “What happened to them?”

The Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair crossed his left knee over his right and smiled, “Why,  he has refused to come to my ball tonight. He may have been _murdered_.”  The Gentleman searched Sherlock’s eyes and found no resistance.  “I fear for my life next, ser, perhaps would you agree to attend the ball tonight in his place?  As a musician, of course.” He hastened to add. Then he lowered his voice and added in a thread of danger, mystery and intrigue, “Unless you insist upon a dance, then how could I refuse such a beauty a simple demand?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said absently, his eyes hazy.

The man unfolded himself from his chair and gently touched the pads of his fingertips to Sherlock’s fine face.  “When you hear the bell, I am coming for you,” he murmured.

The lights turned out.

When John came back in and turned them on, the strange looking man, John couldn’t say what he really looked like, was gone.  Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t look fine at all. He absently picked up his violin case and went to his room. “I’m… practicing for a case, John.”  He shut his door on John’s sputtered questions and locked it behind him.

The beautiful melody he played over and over suddenly stopped at midnight.

When John picked the lock and opened Sherlock’s door, nobody was inside.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock played madly, his eyes scanning the terrifying crowd.  There were people that were not...people. They might have been once, but now they were… something else.

He didn't feel concerned, though, he was looking for someone out of place.  All of these people fit together, in their wild clothing and ripped up faces.  Their birdnest hair and gravedirt rouge, they all fit together.

But there, whirling in the midst of all of those creatures was a flash of white and auburn.

A woman, face pinched in pain and sorrow, staring beseechingly at a very familiar looking man with puffy white hair.  They spun around the dance floor together and when he paused the music, for just a second, the man dipped down and kissed her full on the mouth.  He looked away, and when he looked back they were gone.

Later, just before dawn, he found her again.  She looked terrified, brown eyes open wide and liquid with tears, staring straight at him, her mouth gaping open as she screamed a name, “ _SHERLOCK!”_

Ah, yes, that name belonged to someone.

Was it him?

He woke up gasping, his fingers covered in blood and blisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Sherlock, you should have kicked him straight out again. I'll update again tomorrow!


	4. Love Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there is sexual content with dubious consent in this chapter. Please heed the warnings.

Jim had planted cameras in Molly’s apartments during his ill-advised time as Jim from IT.  He’d slept with her after their second date and made her come so many times she fainted. He’d been insistent, pulling orgasms out of her even after she begged him to stop, and he hadn’t even needed to penetrate her.  The cameras had taken minutes to stick up and get online, then he’d been back in her bed with a rock hard member, waiting for her to wake up. She’d rode him out of gratefulness for the pleasure beforehand, and he’d given her two more orgasms before he’d gotten his own.

They’d both slept quite well that night.

Then Sherlock, and the lab, and his very intentional underwear.  The cameras stayed where they were.

And then the Gentleman.

He stared at his laptop now, hair mussed and eyes bloodshot.

Every night, Molly Hooper walked through a large mirror in her hallway.

Every morning, she stumbled back out and into bed, period dress fading into her fuzzy pajamas.

He stared at the screens, holding his fingers to his lips, and thought.  He planned, schemed, and wrote up charts then burned them immediately. He hissed when the Gentleman would lounge in her apartments and wink up at the cameras smugly.

He met with Irene Adler, but only in passing, twitchy and watching for a man with bushy white hair.  He actually insisted they not cross paths in person, but she give him proof of her scandalous pictures and other useful data on a hard drive, passed to him by her assistant Kate as he walked by a park bench and she dropped it convenient in front of him.  When he had given the appearance of trying to hand it back, she’d vehemently insisted she didn’t drop anything, called him a creep, and stalked away. He’d texted Irene his compliments on her acting.

He threw the thumb drive into a desk drawer and forgot about it.

He also ripped every mirror out of his apartment and had his stainless steel appliances painted matte black.  When his sniper and bodyguard had huffed, he’d quipped, “Oh I’m just so changeable, Sebby, you know that. I’ve decided I hate _mirrors_.”  He’d kissed the large man on the cheek and ignored the Gentleman that was hovering at his elbow.

Not for the first time, he was thankful for the large scar that bisected Sebastian Moran’s face.  It apparently made him unappealing to the pleasure-seeking fae, who barely deigned to glance his direction.

The Gentleman was silent as Jim drifted back to his office, slipping inside before he shut the door firmly.

“What do _you_ want,” Jim asked stiffly.

“The bargain has been struck.  It must be fulfilled.” His voice sounded like cracking glass and it made the inside of Jim’s mouth itch.  He sounded quite cross, “You have already paid the price, but have gone without your due. The nature of my magic demands,” he gestured, “balance.”

“Maybe I want to break the bargain,” Jim gave him a sharp grin and placed his hands on his desk.  “Maybe I want to _change my mind_.”  He gave a shrug and cracked his neck, “It’s kind of what I’m known for,” he gave a grand gesture, “part of my brand, you see.”

“No.”  The Gentleman didn’t blink, those hard, ice-chip eyes glaring at him.

“Oh _honey_ ,” he purred, sitting on the corner of the desk, “That’s not really the type of answer I like to hear.”

They stared at each other in silence.  An unstoppable force against an immovable object.

“Even if you take her, it won’t stop me.”  The Gentleman spoke suddenly, his voice rich with frustration.  “You have to realize that I know what you’re planning. You’re not the first mortal I’ve dealt with, and I’m older than this _continent_.  There’s nothing new under the sun, and all that.  I always get my end.” He tilted his head at an inhuman angle, “Half her life.  Always, half her life.”

Jim inclined his head, acknowledgement of a foe.  “Then the other half must belong to me. Besides, I like keeping you on your _toes._ ”  He clapped his hands twice, plunging the room into darkness.  When he clapped again, the lights turned back on and he was alone.

“Ah, the beauty of technology.”

He sat down at his desk and went to work.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock quietly handed his violin to his brother for safekeeping, lest he smash it against the walls.  He’d bandaged his hands as best he could and avoided John.

Mycroft had looked over him, murmured, “Redbeard,” under his breath, waited for a reaction, didn’t get one, and then took the instrument carefully, promising it’s safe reunion when Sherlock felt sane again.

Aside from the strange associate of Moriarty that had shown up, and what did he look like? What did he sound like?  Whenever he thought of that man, his hands hurt and he got a strange sense of being hunted in a dark forest, he smelled loam and rotting leaves when he tried to think of the gentleman’s voice, heard the scream of a red hart when he tried to picture the man’s face.

He couldn’t concentrate.  He couldn’t.

And then, Irene Adler.

 

* * *

 

Jim approached Molly when she was waiting in line for coffee.  He stood behind her and ordered the same thing she did, but changed his accent just enough that she didn’t turn around.  He smelled the fear and magic on her hair and his worry grew just a notch.

He followed her down the street, waited for her to be in a mostly isolated stretch of sidewalk and extended his stride to catch up to her.  He spilled his lukewarm coffee down the back of her shirt, ignoring her low shriek, and used her shocked state to maneuver her into an alleyway.

When she saw him her eyes grew terrified and she opened her mouth to scream.  He slammed his palm over her mouth and hissed, “Where is it that you go at night, Molly Hooper?  Do you know? Because I think I have a pretty good idea.” His eyes searched hers, watching as she slid from terror to disbelief to the slightest measure of hope.  He removed his hand.

She breathed out, “A man.  What does he look like?”

“He doesn’t look human, that’s for sure, but if we’re making sure we’re on the same page…” He stepped in closer, pressing every inch of his body to hers, murmuring, “His hair is white and fluffy, it looks like thistledown.”  She almost collapsed against him in relief.

She knew who Jim Moriarty was, Sherlock had told her in the most scathing way, but the Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair was twice as frightening to her at the moment.  If she had to set herself in the jaws of danger to stay out of the mouth of hell, she would absolutely do it.

Anyone who believed her right now was a godsend.

“He takes me dancing,” she said it a watery whisper, “Every night.  I haven’t had a rest in…” She let her eyes flutter shut as she realized she didn’t actually know.  “And… after we broke up,” she winced and he wrinkled his nose at the mention of that embarrassing conversation, “this happened.”  She removed her side ponytail and shook out her hair. Quite a large chunk was just… gone. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth for a second. _She only held your heart in her hands after the fall, I do so see.  And literally, no doubt._

He stood close to her, breathing in the same space, eyes on her thin, wan face, and he ordered, “Call out of work.  You’re coming with me.”

She meekly accepted his mobile, stammering through an explanation of illness, looking slightly annoyed at the mention of her recent ‘tired-looking’ appearance, and then almost shoved the phone in his chest when she was done.

“Do you do anything else,” he asked abruptly, after he’d shoved the two of them in a sleek black car, “other than dancing?”

Her face turned red and she looked out of the window.

Jim frowned thoughtfully.

They were silent for the rest of the ride.

 

* * *

 

Molly almost wept at the mirrorless flat, running her hands over the matte appliances.

Jim ordered her to shower, tossing her a pair of sweatpants he’d never bothered to wear and one of his shirts left over from ‘Jim from IT’.

As soon as she came back, damp hair hanging unattractively down her back and the missing hank plainly visible, she asked, quietly, if she could sleep.

He showed her to the spare room, she fell onto the soft mattress with a sigh and rolled herself up in the thick comforter, closing her eyes as she murmured a soft thanks.

Two hours later, he heard soft cries coming from behind the closed door.  He softly padded over and listened at the heavy oak. The cries didn’t sound… pained.

He pushed open the door and there, kneeling between her parted thighs, was the Gentleman.  Molly herself was still fast asleep, but the Gentleman lifted his head and gave Jim a smile that made his heart beat very fast.  The area around his pale mouth was damp, and he could smell Molly’s pleasure on the air. The Gentleman softly slid his hand between her thighs to replace his mouth, wringing another cry from her.

“Half her life, Moriarty,” he said softly, his voice like honey and low autumn sun and silk, “It doesn’t _have_ to be spent dancing in my realm.”

His smile was peaceful, terrible, and Jim swallowed heavily.

“I’m sure you know exactly how she tastes, ser, and if you wish to sample it again, you need only ask in a _very_ specific way.”  His terrible smile was still on his face, but Jim only heard the rushing on his own blood in his ears.  “You could not please her like I can,” he murmured, “it is better for me to take matters into my own hands.”

He found he could not look away, but he did sneer at the accusation.  He made no move to step into the room.

“Suit yourself,” the gentleman loomed over her, suddenly standing, and made to divest himself of his fine jacket.  He saw the dim horror rising on Moriarty’s face, and chuckled, “Don’t worry, we do this all the time. She always, always _begs_ before the night is done.”  Jim found himself shoved back and the door slammed in his face.

He stood at the door and listened to the sounds of their joining.  He ignored her pleased cries, focusing instead on the masculine grunts, like a rutting beast, and the image of a great buck ran through his mind.  The flesh slapped together faster and faster, before there was a high keen and a low moan and he was biting his tongue so hard it _bled_.

There was no sound for five minutes, but the door did not open.

The sounds started again, and this time they didn’t stop until dawn.

 

* * *

 

_He’s punishing me_ , Jim thought, dimly horrified by Molly’s frightened, tired face the next morning.   _He’s getting to me._

“Jim, I… I slept, but…”  He didn’t move to comfort her as her eyes filled with tears.  “He still came, I think.” She pressed her thighs together and winced.

Oh, he’d come.  He’d come many, many times.  Jim had lost sleep counting them all.

He was silent, staring at her with wide, dark eyes.  He schooled his face into something impassive, something uncaring.  He adjusted his shirtsleeve and slowly crossed one ankle over the other.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably.

“Jim…” she started cautiously, refusing to sit down when he gestured at the chair.  She must have been sore. Jim looked at her face. The Gentleman had bit her lips, he saw the bruises.  “How… how do you know… him?” Softer, “How does he know _me?_ ”

He ran his hand over his face.  “That doesn’t matter,” he snarled.

He’d gone through so _much_ trouble to keep her safe, demurely threatening Eurus when she took an interest, giving her subtle protections and barriers against crime, deterrents to those who knew him and his business and what to look for.  Molly Hooper was his because he said so, because he wanted her to be. After ‘Jim from IT’, he’d never wanted to see her face to face again, but just the knowledge that she was kept, for him and only him, made him tingle with glee.

He shouldn’t have cared about her, not this much, but it rankled that the Gentleman took her when Jim explicitly set everything up to tell him no.

She was supposed to remain sweet, soft, unspoiled.

He was going to kill the Gentleman for ruining that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters to go!


	5. Do As I Say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Temporary character death at the beginning.

The Gentleman started taking Sherlock with him on small errands, always luring him with the implication that he needed protection.

“The killer of my musician has still not been found, Sherlock,” his poisoned words slipped into his brain, pushing all of the right buttons, winding the silken cord of servitude tighter around his neck.

A sharp nod with hazy, unfocused eyes.  “Of course, don’t worry. The game is afoot.”

The Gentleman smiled and lead him through a mirror.

 

* * *

 

Jim wordlessly climbed in bed next to her the next evening.  He’d been out all day, running errands, he’d told her. He wouldn’t say anything else.  This was the first she’d seen of him and his dark expression made her very wary. His posture was stiff and he was wearing uncomfortable flannels.  She got the idea that he normally slept naked, the pajamas still had creases in them from where they had been folded.

“Jim, I-” Her voice was high pitched and worried, and she tried to shove his arm off from around her waist.

“Shut up,” he snarled, and pulled her close against him.  He laid a length of iron chain around their wrists and held her sullenly.  Like a child with a favorite toy. Molly, so tired and so afraid, simply stilled and let him wind his arms around her and tuck his chin over her shoulder.  “Go to sleep,” he bit out. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t as comforting as he wanted it to be.

She did, eventually, give in to exhaustion and the steady thump of his heart.  As she slackened in his grip, he wound the iron chains closer around them.

“What, exactly, is this,” the voice hovered around all of his senses, like he was far away but so close at the same time.  An echo of a song he half remembered, a windy whisper on a solstice night. He shook his head to clear the magic. When Jim looked behind him, the Gentleman was inches away, staring at the chains with veiled interest.  “Do you intend to keep her from me?” He walked around the bed to stare at Molly’s face.

“She’s _mine._ ”  Jim’s grip on her tightened.

The Gentleman chuckled, “Yes, of course.  But you bargained half of her life to me.”  His voice had turned warm, patient, like the wind through the full branches of an oak tree in humid summer air, and he reached for the chain.  “Let me divest you of this fool notion.” He reached for the chains, and Jim did something he thought was rather quite clever. He held her slightly too close, and the Gentleman read the naked emotion on his face for what it was.  The Gentleman gave another patient, paternal grin, “She’ll rip your heart of your chest without thinking about it, you must realize that. You would be that much safer if you just...let her go with me.” His voice washed over Jim like a warm, Mediterranean tide.  He felt soft and warm, drugged, like he would never be in danger again.

His hand hidden between them, he slowly pushed the plunger on the needle full of toxins he’d slid into Molly’s soft thigh.

He gave a sneer at the Gentleman’s face as soon as he felt her heart slowing.

“What,” his voice was getting deeper, louder, more dimensional, like fire, like a _volcano,_ all fire and brimstone and power, lurking just under the surface, “have you done.”   _Vesuvius._

He ran his hands over her face, as her breathing got shallower, slower, her heartbeat stuttering and her body shook as her system started to shut down.  Jim looked at the Gentleman hatefully from over her shoulder, “Half her life, yes? Now that’s _over_.”  He bared his teeth like a dog, “I _win_.”

The Gentleman screamed with all of his magic, and Jim felt like his skin was being flayed from his _bones,_ the sound like crystals crashing and worlds crumbling, he tasted stars exploding and people dying, and his heart was being so _fast_ …

The fae vanished with a howl as soon as Molly’s heart stuttered to a stop and Jim counted to five before frantically rolling her over, ripping open her shirt and grabbing the needle full of adrenaline from under his pillow.

He slammed it into her heart and shoved all of the chemical stimulant into her.

One.  She was so pale.

Two.   She was so still.

Three.  She gasped.

Four.  She sat up straight.

Five.  She screamed.

He slapped one hand over her mouth as the other kept a firm grip on that long, long needle and he slowly forced her to lay back.  The adrenaline was coursing through her system, making her shake, and she whimpered against him as her pupils tightened to pinpricks.

“Welcome to your second life, Molly Hooper,” he gave her a terrible grin, “Free of any and all obligations I may have set before you.”

Her voice was shaking, “Y...you…”

He scoffed, “Of course me, darling, why else would I have been able to see him?  I made a miscalculation and I fixed it. You’re welcome.” He rolled off of the bed and yanked the iron chain with him.  The Gentleman hadn’t seemed too worried about it, but he also hadn’t touched the cold, heavy metal.

“Do you realize,” her voice with pinched and high, “what I have endured because of your ‘miscalculation’?”  She flung back the blankets to reveal her bruised thighs and glared at him. “Do you have any idea?”

Jim’s eyes lingered on the fingertip-shaped bruises before he turned and silently walked out of the room.

He’d noticed instantly that her missing hair was back.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, do you know how to kill a madman?”

Sherlock stood in the moor, his brow furrowed.  “The same way you kill anyone else?” His fingers were bleeding again, The Gentleman made a note to get another enchanted violin.  It would do no good for him to flay all of the skin from his beautiful hands while they were still of use.

The Gentleman gave a sharp, unfriendly smile.  “Exactly.”

Sherlock felt a heavy weight drop into his pocket.  He didn’t look at it. He didn’t have to.

He’d known from the instant they locked eyes in the pool that his destiny was to bring about the end of Jim Moriarty.

This was just a slightly more supernatural version than he’d originally planned.

He looked around at the bleak landscape, “Is this one of your kingdoms or-”

“It’s Scotland.   _Obviously_.”  His tone was scathing, and he muttered, “Why does everyone think I would live somewhere like this?”

He turned to walk away, Sherlock following close behind him.

 

* * *

 

He could not believe his eyes.

Molly Hooper sat before him, a thick bandage on her chest and sipping a weak cup of tea.

The Gentleman tapped his long fingernails on the table, eyes running over her form again and again.  The magician, if he could even call himself that, was nowhere to be seen.

She had died.

Her heart had stopped and the life had left her body.

He’d felt it.  He’d felt the hold over her break, and now he could not touch her.

She had died.

Yet here she was, sitting before him even now.  He sensed no magic around her that could have brought her back to life, no spells running the blood through her veins.  The little man was a magician of a sort, but he was nowhere near learned or powerful enough to raise the dead.

How had that terrible little man outsmarted him?

His lip curled and his nails scratched deeper into the table.  Molly stopped, still as a rabbit in the undergrowth who knows it has been spotted by a hawk.  Her eyes fixed on the new gouge that had not been there seconds before.

“Call for me,” he whispered, “Let me back in.  Let me control you, take care of you, let me make you into a _queen_.”  He smiled darkly, “I’ll ask for so little in return.”

The cup rattled as she set it back on the saucer.  She swallowed, tongue thick in her mouth. She parted her lips, licking them momentarily.  He almost moaned at the bruises he had left there, remembered the sweet feel of the soft flesh between his teeth.

She snapped her mouth shut, glanced around the airy dining room and scurried out, slamming the door behind her.  The Gentleman sighed, but stood slowly. He ran one finger over the rim of the china where her lips had touched, and touched the same finger to his own mouth.

Hardly thinking about it, he removed the teacup from time and placed it in his pocket.  The liquid inside didn't move at all.

He vanished.  There was something he needed to find for this spell to work.

 

* * *

 

Jim came back into the apartment, practically dancing.

Molly threw a book at him, hissing, “Where have you _been_?”  She glanced around her, frightened, “I think _he_ was-”

Jim caught the book and threw it over his shoulder.  He swept her up into his arms, humming an ancient waltz, and he danced them around the room.  “I’ve been busy, my darling, you must forgive me.” He twirled her out and pulled her back in, all with his eyes closed.  “Foiling the terrorist plots of the government, you must understand. _Jumbo jets._ ”

She huffed and squeezed his hand to get his attention.  He responded by squeezing back, but much harder. “ _Ow_ , Jim really, we need to-”  She looked around again and then pressed herself closer to him, ignoring his pleased hum, and whispered into his ear, “I think the man with the white hair was back.  I think he was _watching_ me.”

Jim didn’t stop their dance.  “Oh yes, most likely,” he said without care, “I doubt anyone ever gets under his skin quite so easily.”  She didn’t know if he was talking about her or him or both of them.

“Indeed,” the Gentleman said flatly, from his perch on the sofa, “I am rarely outsmarted so well.”  Molly didn’t react, so Jim quickly drew the conclusion that she couldn’t see the ancient entity that was bouncing his leg in a very annoyed fashion.

Jim didn’t falter, still smoothly pulling Molly around the room.

He did, however, smile.  It made the hair on the back of Molly’s neck stand up.

Molly moved one arm to his neck, “Is he here?”

“Indeed I am, my _pet._ ”  He materialized then, and she shrieked.  He smiled, an insincere expression that sat badly on his fine face.  His bottle green suit stood out in the white room and contrasted sharply with Jim’s cheap t-shirt and jeans.  The man’s pale eyes locked on her face. She tried to hide in Jim’s chest, but found she couldn’t look away. He tilted his head and Jim’s grip on her tightened.  “Why do you fight so hard to hold her?” His eyes flicked between Jim’s stony face and Molly’s frightened one. “She doesn’t even know all of the trouble she’s put you through.”  He reached out one hand and stopped short. “You can’t even _begin_ to appreciate her, and _you_ are beyond her capabilities to understand.  Star cross’d lovers, as it were.”

Jim half turned her away, putting himself between Molly and the Gentleman.  “Be that as it may, I won. You lost. She died, and now she lives again. You had half of that life.  Now this one is entirely-” he bit his tongue and looked at her. She had been completely silent, curling against him like a frightened kitten, and he suddenly felt weary.  If everything went according to plan, he and Sherlock would be resting together eternally in a few short months. “This one is entirely hers.” He found himself saying. He’d cut Molly Hooper as free as she wanted to be.  Another loose end, tied off all nice and tidy.

She looked up at him with big, liquid eyes.  He found himself wanting to kiss her, but he swung his gaze back to the Gentleman, who had an expression he very much did not like.

He looked almost seductive, his eyes heavy lidded and the corners of his mouth turned up coyly.  “Do you know Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper?” Her eyes widened and Jim’s got very narrow. “He’s an acquaintance of mine.  He and I have a,” he flicked his gaze deliberately to Jim’s face, “mutual friend, shall we say. Tell me, what would you give to save him from my clutches?”  His grin widened into a sneer.

She licked her lips, “Wh… where is he?  I thought he and John had gone on holiday.  To-” She clamped her lips and squeaked out, “Somewhere.  I don’t… I don’t know where.”

“Is she always such a bad liar?”  The Gentleman’s voice was soft and sweet and Molly felt rose petals touching her cheeks.  Jim felt thorns in his mouth, but he smiled and _hoped_ it was full of blood.

“Usually,” he drawled, “But it’s so cute when she tries.”  He rocked his body side to side and Molly along with him. She fisted her hands in his ugly shirt.  His dark, bright eyes locked onto the Gentleman’s face and he gave a frightening smile. “The exact words you used for the bargain were ‘half the life of the woman in your heart.’” He felt Molly tense against him and ignored it.  His eyes got brighter, “There was no mention of a _Sherlock_ at all.”

“Oh, of course not, I don’t _need_ to go through you to get to him.  I’m his _client_ , you see.  He’s working on a _case_ for me.”  The Gentleman purred.

“A case,” Jim said flatly.

“A case?” Molly breathed.

“A case!  Why don’t we all go another round of saying it.”  The Gentleman rolled his eyes. “Of course a case, it’s a perfectly legitimate and _free_ way to go about contacting him.  He’s on holiday, yes, I need a special something from a special area for a special _spell_.”

Everyone was silent for a heartbeat.  Jim clutched Molly tighter and oh, he was so angry.  Molly had been his to protect and keep apart from the world, but Sherlock was his to _destroy_.  The Gentleman had already sullied Molly, and that was unfortunate but it just meant he had to be a little more hands on in his approach to fixing her, but it absolutely would not do for Sherlock to stay within his greedy hands as well.

_Give her back_ , the thought slithered across his mind, _give her up in exchange for Sherlock_.  He shoved it to the back of his head.  Absolutely not. Sherlock would worm out of it, probably, he was just like Jim, after all.  Molly, though, brilliant and booksmart as she was, was not so good with high pressure hostage situations.  In a roundabout way, they were just dealing with a kidnapper who wanted one thing in exchange for someone precious.

“Why me?”  Her eyes were hard, angry and tired.  She was still leaning on Jim’s chest, and his arms slipped tighter around her waist.  She gestured broadly to herself, “I’m not special. Not really. I do alright, I’m good at my job and I’m fit, but I’m not… not a genius.  I’m not worth the _trouble_.”  She said it like a fact that she’d accepted long ago.  Molly Hooper wasn’t brilliant, she knew she was clever enough to assist Sherlock from time to time, but no more clever than John Watson.  She’d noticed his remarkably magic-free life with no small amount of bitterness. Molly Hooper only had herself to offer, no great beauty, cutting wit or vast fortune, and she just could not fathom why, suddenly, she was being pursued by a criminal mastermind and some kind of insane fairy king.

The Gentleman smiled wistfully, “I’ve heard something similar, a very long time ago, from a man of kingly stature.  He killed me for awhile, and what I wouldn’t give to see him again… “ The Gentleman’s gaze grew hazy and far away as he trailed off, then he snapped his attention back to Molly.  “You’ll never see yourself as I see you,” covered in blood with a crown of bones nestled in her hair, “or as he sees you,” sweet and soft and battered by life, but still so willing to smile, “and that, my dear, is one of the most beautiful things.”  He reached out one hand to trace the shape of her face in the air. “You’re so unaware of your own potential. He,” and here he gestured to Jim, “would set you under a bell jar to be caught in stasis, exactly as you are, for eternity. _I_ would elevate you,” he stepped closer and Molly felt warm wind in her hair and _power_ under her feet, like the world was waiting for her word to grow, “I would give you power, land, a title.”  He smiled sharply, “I would even grant you a _crown_.”  He held out his hand.  “Would you join me? I would have no use for Sherlock then.”  It was a lie, really, but he would be able to use Molly in ways he would no longer need to use Sherlock.  That didn't mean he wouldn’t keep him. Semantics, intention and tone. His favorite playthings.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Jim said, holding the syllables in his mouth like a fine wine, savoring them, “Does not need her help.  He can handle anything you can throw at him.” He was confident, rubbing his thumbs in circles on her spine.

“Do you really want to test that?”  The Gentleman’s eyes were bright with glee, and when he vanished Molly opened her mouth to cry out but Jim swallowed her words in a brutal kiss.

His kiss was punishing, hard, and he gripped her cheeks with one of his hands, fingertips digging into the soft flesh.  He walked her back into the wall, mindful of the bruises on her lower half, and licked the inside of her mouth like he could erase when he knew she had been about to say.  When they parted, her hand still grasping a fistful of his cotton shirt, he growled at her, “Never, _ever_ , offer than man anything at all.  Not a word, not a token, not a _breath_ , Molly Hooper.”

Wordlessly, she tracked her eyes on his face and nodded.

He pulled her into a tight embrace, but he didn’t want to examine the reason why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, only one more chaaaapter!


	6. And I Will Be Your Slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide in this particular chapter.

Sherlock, fingertips shaking, dug into the loam in Dewer’s Hollow, near Baskerville.

Ancient earth soaked it the blood of a traitor and a father.

Everyone was busy, everyone was murmuring, and the police had shown up after the explosion.  This was his only chance. As soon as he had a handful of the soft, dark dirt neatly sealed into an evidence bag, there was a sound behind him.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”  The voice of the Gentleman warmed him instantly, like a seven-percent solution on a day when his mind was entirely too awake.  He closed his eyes and smiled, letting himself sink down into the dreamy bliss. “This will help me ensare the murderer for certain.”

The bag was plucked from his fingers as he murmured, “Gravedirt, yes?”

Another hand smoothed it’s way down his torso, pressure heavy through his Beltaff, and the voice turned dark and smoky like embers, “What would you like as a… bonus?”  The hand drifted lower and Sherlock smoothly stepped backwards, out of it’s questing reach.

“No thank you, I consider myself married to my work.”  He kept the smile frozen on his face as he slowly opened his eyes to take in the pale Gentleman before him, “But what I _would_ like is information.  Where, exactly, is Molly Hooper and why do you smell of her shampoo?”

The Gentleman’s smile deepened and his eyes flashed, “What would you give me to find out?”

Sherlock let his face drop into a blank, slightly disgusted visage.  “Nothing. You’re some sort of fae, I figured that much out instantly.  We have a mutual acquaintance, Moriarty, and since you’re dealing with him and yet you smell of her, she must be with him.”  He quirked his lips in an insincere smile. “There’s no murdered musician, case closed, our deal is _done_.”

The Gentleman’s face had gone from seductive to murderous in minutes, but then the clouds blocked out the moon, and when the faint silver light returned he was no longer there.

Neither was the evidence bag full of earth.

Sherlock flipped his collar up and went to find John.  Time to head back to London.

He couldn’t feel the heavy weight still in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

Two bonds broken, he must be slipping.

The Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair sat on a stump near what used to be his kingdom of Lost Hope.  The last time he’d gotten to play with mortals, it had gone much better than this, a temporary death notwithstanding.  He tried to swallow his annoyance.

He tapped his fingers on his knee and pulled the teacup suspended in time out of his pocket.  He set it to hover in front of him, and pulled out the bag of rich soil to orbit around it. It felt… incomplete.  He was missing something. The Gentleman quietly steepled his fingers below his jaw and let his eyes roam mindlessly across the bleak landscape.

Something was hiding from him.

Some part of the spell did not _want_ to be found.  How terribly, terribly interesting.

He rolled his eyes.  Of course. The stupid quasi-magician.  His end of the deal. The magic there, so unsure, tossing about with no outlet, was chittering at him.  He’d freely given half the life of the woman who held his heart in her hands, but hadn’t gotten anything in return.

Maybe he could just get Sherlock to kill him ahead of schedule.

He frowned viciously.  Of course Sherlock still carried the weapon in the pocket, but now their deal was _done_ and he couldn’t compel him to use it.  How dull, how inconvenient.

He couldn’t ensnare Molly Hooper without her striking a bargain, something he was unfortunately sure she was not stupid enough to do.

That left one last avenue, one last person he could reach out and _touch_.

Jim Moriarty simply had to kill himself.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately for the Gentleman, Jim Moriarty was in no position to currently commit suicide.

He’d been snatched from the streets of London four days ago.  He had little doubt that Molly was doing well, he’d told Sebastian to keep an eye on her in case he ever turned up missing, dead, or came back unable to speak of where he’d been.

The Iceman’s little interrogation rooms were really very dull, very boring.  The isolation didn’t bother him, the beatings rather turned him on, and the information he was able to extract from the center of the Iceman was just so… _delicious._

He completely ignored the fairy with the candy floss hair lounging in the corner, smiling widely and asking him if he’d like to reveal his end of the bargain yet.

He’d taken to writing Sherlock’s name all over every available surface, if only to see the look on the eldest Holmes’ face.

When he waltzed out of the room, let loose back on the streets of London, he winked at the scowling fae as he passed him by and whistled a jaunty tune.

 

* * *

 

The very thing that marked Moriarty as a magician also got him into terrible trouble sometimes.

His silver tongue and ability to manipulate anyone and everyone left him resting on the assumption that he’d read the person right and they wouldn’t veer off into left field right when he needed them to perform.  Most of the time, it worked. Most of the time, it was fine. There was a small margin of unexpected results where he accidentally summoned ancient fae kings, and an even smaller margin for when he hadn’t pinned someone down perfectly and they squirmed out of his grip.

This was one of those times.  The latter, not the former. He didn’t think he’d be able to stomach if he’d summoned another poncy fairy.

He tapped his Gucci lace up against the ugly carpet, staring at the bitter middle-aged woman on her knees before him.  She raised one over-plucked eyebrow and blinked at him slowly.

“You do realize that if you don’t agree, I’m going to have to make sure you won’t be able to tell anyone else?”  Contrary to popular belief, he didn't particularly enjoy murder. It was messy, it was smelly, and if he didn't get it right on the first try, some the sounds were just… He rolled his eyes at her determined scowl.

“I could do that for you,” a gleeful voice slid in his ear, and Jim rolled his eyes.  The Gentleman stood behind the woman, touching his index fingers together. He pulled them apart slowly, a single strand of spider silk caught between them.  “I could strangle her so easily, nobody would be able to tell it was you.” The smile he gave might have been charming to someone who wasn’t Jim. The spider silk glistened in the weak light.

“I think I’m…” The woman gave a startled screech as her tongue turned into moss and her ears into toads.  Jim stepped back slowly as a spider descended from the silk between the two fingers of the mad fae king and started weaving a web between the branches that had suddenly split out of her skull.

Within the span of a minute, Jim’s key to the Bank of England fell to the ground as a swamp log, complete with critters.

“A gift, for you.  Free of charge,” the Gentleman’s face told him it was a warning.   _Look what I can do_.

“And what, praytell, did she do to deserve _that?_ ”  He nudged the damp log with the point of his expensive shoes, nose wrinkling at the smell.

“Why, she was trying to thwart you.  She imagined she could stop your plans and you along with them.” He raised one upswept eyebrow innocently.  “Are you not pleased?”

“Not especially, but it _is_ a tidy solution.” He shrugged his shoulders, nonplussed.  He put his hands in his pockets, “Is there anyone else you intend to do this to that I should know about?”

“Hmm.”  The Gentleman stepped around the log.  “I suppose I could conjure a similar solution to anyone I saw fit.  A… detective, perhaps. A sniper. An army doctor.” He took a slow step toward Jim.  “A little mouse with lovely feet and the criminal who tried to hold her out of my reach.  The possibilities are just so endless.” He shrugged his shoulders beneath his white suit jacket, walking around behind him.  “I’m getting impatient, and logs cannot fail to fulfil their bargains. Only so many things a log can do, after all.”

Jim pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to delicately cover his nose and mouth.  He gave the Gentleman an appraising look. _Someone_ was getting tired of the game.  Internally, he smirked. He could relate.

But to keep Molly safe, to keep Sherlock engaged in the game that would lay them to rest together, and to keep Sebastian whole and hale to look after dear Mollykins?

“Actually,” he lowered the handkerchief from his face, “There is a little something I suppose I would need help with.”

The Gentleman quietly dispelled the teacup and bag of dirt.  Well, well, well. It looked like he might not need that spell after all.

 

* * *

 

The heist.

The arrest.

The trial, amusing as it was.

He’d sent Molly home, murmuring that she was safe and sound, no bogeymen would pop out of the shadows to bother her.  She’d nodded, jerkily, and he could tell from her face that she thought about kissing him. She didn’t, smart girl.

He’d visited Sherlock, taking tea and conversation.  No mention of the Gentleman, he supposed it was a discussion for another lifetime.

The boring time as Richard Brook.  Kitty Riley wasn’t completely intolerable as a companion, but she was a common garden snake.  Not very interesting, a dime a dozen as it were. He wouldn’t have gone through any amount of trouble to keep her safe from the Gentleman.  Annoyingly, the candy floss haired man didn’t show hide nor hair after taking Moriarty’s half of their drawn out bargain. If he could have turned Kitty into a log, he might have had her fashioned into a spindly little side table.

The rooftop.

When he put the gun in his mouth to pull the trigger, he smiled.

The weight had appeared in his pocket very suddenly, he knew it was someone’s little nudge for him to lay down and die.  He couldn’t have known that the weapon had been safe and sound in Sherlock’s keeping for months, invisible but always close at hand.

He felt the warm breath of Molly Hooper on his cheek, her chapped lips pressing into his skin.  The smell of her surrounded him, he could hear her heartbeat. He saw the Gentleman out of the corner of his eye, face solemn.  The ancient man inclined his head. He was dressed in black, a color Jim had never seen him in before. Death, decay, the quiet of a clear winter night.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep..._

His bargain was to feel Molly Hooper’s kiss upon his cheek in the moment before his death, so he could savor it one final time.

He pulled the trigger.

 

* * *

 

 

His brain hurt.

What was left of it.

He felt drugged, hazy and slow.  He knew he had a name, must have had a name, but everyone just called him Mr. Rose.  It didn’t ring true and made him purse his lips when he heard it. He always sneered at his partner and tried to crush their delicate little birdbone hands when they murmured that name under their breaths.

To be fair, it was accurate.  Out of the back of his head, a large trailing primrose plant was growing, long thorny vines curling over his shoulders and down the back of his fine, pale suit.  The roses were red, deep and dark like blood. He always smiled when his dance partner would prick themselves on him, it’s was just so funny. _Nobody ever gets to me_.

He wasn’t sure how he’d lost top half of his head, but he remembered blue eyes, a warm palm against his, and a woman’s kiss on his cheek.

Sometimes, a man with startling clarity in his eyes would dance with him, expertly brushing away the thorny vines and leading him around and around, to an endless, dull waltz.  He couldn’t remember anything before this, and couldn’t imagine anything after, but he knew The Gentleman was there. Against his mouth, the man murmured once, “Never take anything from a fairy without asking the price first, poppet,” and then the man would sometimes kiss him.  Sometimes, Jim would curl his fingers in the man’s strange, thistledown-like hair, his words rocketing around in his crumbling brain.

Had he taken something?

He remembered a weight in his pocket appearing suddenly, and his hand curling around it.   _Dangerous._

_Please, let me die._

_Do you wish to make a bargain?_

_What is my name?_

Around and around and around, eternally dancing.

After awhile, he stopped wondering why he did anything at all but dance and tend to his fine head full of thorns and flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this, everyone! I hope you enjoyed going down this dark, twisting tunnel with me, and Claire, darling, I hope you enjoyed your gift. :)


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